Babylon 5: The Lost Tales
by Grand Admiral Harmon
Summary: Part 8 of the Babylon 5 Alternate Universe. Sheridan has died and is contemplating the mistakes he made in his life. Then a strange man approaches, and shows him that not all choices he made were bad. And not all were good. This is the last installment of this series.
1. Lochley's Love

**Authors Note: This is the Last segment of the _Alternate Babylon 5 Universe_. Two Long years, and we see the end.**

**The Lost Tales**

**Chapter 1: Lochley's Love**

"Do you know who I am?"

The voice was so familiar and yet so far away. Elizabeth Lochley couldn't help but smile at it, even if her eyes were closed. She rolled over in bed, feeling the emptiness of the bed next to her. She opened her eyes, the tired balls that through she saw the world fuzzy and unfocused.

"David?" she asked, pushing herself up slightly. Her hair was a tangled mess, and as she looked around the room, goosebumps appeared on her arm as the bare skin of her arms feeling the chill air from the air recyclers. "Where are you?"

"Here in the kitchen," he called out, and she could see a very faint outline of David Corwin's silhouette as he moved about the kitchen. "You have a very poor selection of breakfast food out here Elizabeth."

"I know that," she called out, dropping back into bed.

The voice she had heard asking 'Do you know who I am?' had not been Davids'. No, it had been her ex-husband, John Sheridan. Her ex-husband and her lover's commanding officer. He had asked that question when they had first met. He had been a snarky cadet from the military Academy on Earth, looking to score with a burnet. She had obliged him, and soon it became obvious that the relationship that had formed was simply not to be. It had only taken roughly three months.

It had been impossible for the two. They had both been career officers, and both with a dire need to be in control. So it wouldn't have been possible to live together, even if they had remained cordial friends.

That hadn't been the case with David Corwin. The only thing he wanted control of was sex. Beyond that, everything else was up for grabs. She had never been this comfortable with anyone before. No one seemed to make her happy like David did.

"You want anything?" he called back from the kitchen.

"What do I got out there?" she asked, not really in the mood to decide anything. David could decide and make breakfast.

"Let's see," she heard, drawers and fridge opening. "We got three eggs. Two oranges. Half a loaf of bread. Something that looks like milk but I shudder to think what it is. And something that looks like my grandmothers toe jam."

Lochley laughed. "That's butter, you idiot!" she chided him, throwing the blankets off her and rising to her feet. It was 800 hours, later than she usually slept. But David was going away on a mission soon, and she wanted to be with him this last few days. No command, no worries of any kind. Her XO could carry the ship's operations without her watching her every movement.

She stopped outside of the bedroom, watching Corwin as he pulled a pan from a peg over the stove and turning on one of the burners began to prepare food. She smiled at his proficiency at this job. Perhaps she would keep him around.

"I'm taking a shower," she remarked, turning and heading towards the open door to the bathroom.

"Really?" he asked with a frown, cracking open an egg and letting the yolk fall into the hot pan. "This shouldn't take too long to cook."

"I prefer being clean," she retorted,, stepping into the room.

Corwin muttered about liking her dirty under his breath but focused on the task of cooking breakfast.

John Sheridan stood in a corner of the room, arms folded and looking remorsefully at the tender scene. This was how it should have been. Right here, there was no looming war with the Minbari. No Centauri oppression of the Human survivors that made the Human Remnant what it was. Just two people in love.

And he had crushed it. Had he not gone out on that mission, if he hadn't of accepted the assignment that the government had made him take, he never would have been captured by Deathwalker. He wouldn't have meet Mr. Morden. He wouldn't have become an agent of evil. And David wouldn't have been knocked out. And he would have married Elizabeth.

"Sulking are we?" a voice asked from behind him.

He turned to see a figure walking through the wall, as a ghost. He didn't know the man, but he knew what he was. A Technomage. A wizard order that relied on technology to give the illusion of magic.

"I'm not sulking," he retorted, "I was just thinking about happier times."

"Aren't you happy dead?" the Technomage asked. Sheridan started to laugh, until he saw the man was serious. It turned his mood sour and he looked away from the man, back at the memory he had not actually seen, but could visit now.

"Now I have time to see my mistakes and ponder them," he replied, "And I don't like it. Not one bit."

"There is more than one tale in your life you didn't witness but had influence over," the Technomage said, "Some good and others bad. Let me show you."

With that, he waved his hand, and dark clouds surrounded them. The image of David cooking melted away, the entire image being sucked into the void of darkness that swallowed both Technomage and Sheridan whole.


	2. We'll Always Have New York

**Note: I had this chapter done a few months ago, but was being idiotic and I got busy with my Star Trek fan series.**

**Chapter 2: We'll Always Have New York**

The sound of the cars as they passed around the tower could be heard, even from up here at the top. Hovercars had only just taken off, to pardon the pun, in sales, and most of the thirteen million New York citizens still drove the combustible engine automobiles. Global warming had passed to global freezing and then it had shifted to global stoning. They had gotten rid of the dependency of fossil fuels, switching instead to synthetic algae and other green products. But it still, no matter how energy efficient they made the vehicles, managed to eliminate the noise pollution.

He had always hated this apartment. But, as he looked out and took in the salty breeze from the ocean not ten blocks away, he couldn't help but admit that he was glad he had moved. A fighter jock didn't need to live out of his parents place.

The music player was playing his favorite audio book. Ernest Hemingway. He wasn't all that bad for a dead white guy.

The door closed behind him and he let out a long sigh. Catherine was gone. Perhaps for good this time. Catherine Sakai and he had never seemed to be able to work their relationship out. So off she went, the second time they had broken up.

He really never could understand why love was so difficult. If it was one of the natural emotions, why was it so brutal? He rubbed his head, feeling a headache coming on. That would be an improvement.

He turned from the view and walked into the apartment, heading towards the medicine cabinet. He loved living on Earth, much more than Mars. He was Mars-born, but in many ways he more identified with Earth than the Red Planet. As he walked through, he noted how...empty it was. So many possessions were gone. Pictures, books, the odd statue. They were all gone. Catherine had really moved out, he guessed.

The door to the cabinet creaked as he opened it, viewing with distaste that all the medicines were gone. Catherine must have taken all the meds too. That somehow stank of a much lower blow.

"Me not being there will give her headache enough," he muttered to himself with grim satisfaction.

He had left last time. She had invited him to Hong Kong to meet her family. He had arrived, and she had gone into full wedding mode, trying to push him towards marrying her. He had escaped, leaving her standing at the airplane station.

This time, it was his fault that had led to her leaving. She had moved in, and within weeks he had begun exerting control over everything. Where she put the plates after meals. When they'd watch movies. How much food she could put in the fridge and cupboards. He had even woken her up whenever he felt they needed to get up.

Part of being a fighter pilot was knowing when and where to let space take control, when to loosen up on the throttles and when more control needed to be exerted. But he had failed to apply those methods of space combat to the domestic front.

He opened up the cupboard and grabbing a cup turned on the faucet. Filling up the cup until it was overflowing, he turned off the water and raised it to his lips. He barely took a sip before he grimaced at the taste. The one thing he didn't like about New York was the water treatment. It always made it taste chalky for roughly a week.

"Why are we here in Jeffrey Sinclair's place?" Sheridan asked, sitting in a chair in the medium sized living room. "When is this anyways?"

"This would be roughly three years before the Earth-Minbari War," Galen said, sitting in another seat, his arms laid to rest on either armrest.

"Again," Sheridan said, "What are we doing here?"

Galen turned an amused glance at the man. He seemed to be like a cat, playing with a ball of string and the string had no control or idea of what was happening. Galen didn't respond, allowing the silence to mount.

The communication panel on the wall began to beep and Jeffrey Sinclair turned towards it. He placed the cup on the counter with a soft thud and walked up to the channel pressing a button to activate the incoming message. An image came on, and an elderly looking General for Earth Force was sitting on the other side of the line. Sinclair gave him a smart and crisp salute.

"Lieutenant Sinclair," the General returned the salute, "How are you doing son?"

"Very well sir," he replied, his voice showing no hint to his inner disappointment. He had hoped inwardly that perhaps it was Catherine calling to ask for forgiveness. But why she wouldn't have come to the door would have been a curious detail to say the least.

"How would you like to go to Io?" the General asked. He was referring to one of the moons around Jupiter. It had only five years before been declared ready for colonists and it had reached recently twenty-five thousand people.

"Io, sir?" Sinclair asked, the confusion in his voice.

"We need someone to take over the post there," the General explained, "And quiet frankly, the only other officer that could have taken it declined it."

"Sir,may I inquire to whom it was that declined?" the young man asked. It was obvious that this wasn't a big assignment. Not even a good one. More of a backwater colony with delusions of grandeur.

"Commander John Sheridan declined because he didn't want to get tied down at a desk job," he said, "Look, I realized you are a space fighter. And a d-n good one too I hear. But this is a chance to stretch your wings. Give you real command experience."

"When would I take up command?" he asked.

"In one week," came the answer.

"I accept," Sinclair said, not needing to know anything more.

"What does this have to do with anything?" Sheridan asked, the surroundings around him going slightly quiet. "I didn't even _meet_ Sinclair until the start of the Second Narn War. Besides an accident at the Academy."

"Not every decision in your life had negative consequences, Sheridan," Galen said.

Sheridan gave him a doubtful look. How could this have possible been a good decision? He remembered passing up Io. It had been one of the best career moves he had ever made. Io had been undesirable in all aspects.

"But you placed a man that you barely knew in the position he needed to be," the Technomage responded.

"How?" Sheridan held up his hands.

"Jeffrey Sinclair met his best friend while on Io, something he never would have been able to do had he not gone there," Galen explained, leaning forward in the chair, "You placed him in a spot where he'd be able to meet with the Vorlons and learn about who he was far in advance had he otherwise been. He is Valen and Valen is him. You set him on the path to become one of the greatest leaders history has ever known. All because you said 'no' once when you could have said 'yes'."

"I'm still not convinced," he muttered, "The occasional good choice does not change the outcome of all my bad decisions."

Galen shook his head. "No, it does not," he agreed, "But one cannot simply loose heart because they don't see the good. Blessings are not that hard to spot when you put effort into it."

"What blessings?" he snorted, "If I've had any blessing, it was to die early."

Galen grabbed his hand and the rom vanished and contorted as they moved out through space and time through the collective memories of an entire race.


	3. A Friend to Power

Chapter 3: A Friend to Power

The great hubbub of voices echoed throughout the station as Colonel Ari Ben Zayne marched through the station. The flow of people around him invigorated him, made him feel strong. This post was his, as it should be. He had always known he was destined for greatness, especially in the military hungry Human Remnant. Few people truly understood the lure of the military in this post-apocalyptic human society, but he intended to ensure that nobody ever forgot the name of Ari Ben Zayne.

He had powerful friends, more powerful than most people realized. He was on his way to meet one of these friends now. One of his friends was Alfred Bester, current leader of Psi-Corp. Even Vice-President Clark owed him a few favors.

His every step was precise, and fell heavily in the wide corridor. _Babylon 5_ had always meant to be his. Not that slackard Jeffry Sinclair. With the other man's current _assignment_ it had led the way for his ascension. There was some resistance, including from Commander Takashima. She was enamored with Sinclair and did not take kindly to her new superior officer. Ben Zayne cared not for the feelings of those around him, but he required obedience. Pure and simple.

He lifted the data-pad again to ensure he had the proper location for the meeting. Brown Sector, Area 6, Level 6. He sniffed, his muscles contorting around the scar that slid down his face like a singular hanging thread from the web of a spider. An odd place for a meeting of friends. Brown Sector was called by the local military personelle "Down Below" but at any rate, it was a heavily undeveloped part of the station. Many rooms hadn't been completed there and in many cases the area had been left open, except for a massive amount of building refuse from lazy people who cared not to get their jobs done.

He passed by some of the technical staff who saluted him as he passed, turning from their repairs as they did so. Ignoring them completely, he stepped up the the door that separated Blue from Brown Sectors. Raising his hand to the button panel, he input the open door and it slid open.

"Are you sure you want to be going in there sir?" one of the technicians asked. "There a lot of loose floor boards in there sir. I'd hate to have to pry you from out of a floor that gave way."

"When I want the opinion of a blue-collar worker I will ask for it," Ben Zayne snapped, throwing his head back as the door slid open. "I have business over here."

"Business?" the man frowned, "Must be some shady stuff, sir."

"Mind your tongue or I'll have you thrown in the brig," the Colonel snapped, and stepped through.

The door slid shut behind him as he stepped through. The sound wasn't loud and with a smug smile he continued to walk through the Brown Section. He was at once greeted with the smell of dust. Lots of dust. It had always amazed him that dust could get so heavy in a place with little human traffic. As the Chief Medical Officer on board would say, dust was a product of dead skin cells, both human and alien. And he knew for a fact that not too many people ventured here, besides the occasional construction crew who actually wanted to do their job.

He had gone only about a dozen feet when he felt the section of floor his right foot fell on sag slightly underneath the weight of even the touch of his foot. He looked down, and saw that the piece of flooring wasn't finished floor. He had been in construction as a teenager before joining the military and remembered from experience that there was three parts to making floor. One was the actual layout. The second was a lesser floor that acted more as a mesh web. This was an invention of the year 2200. This mesh webbing was very fragile but when combined when the third part of floors, the actual top floor panels, they would mesh together and create a metal that was tougher than anything seen in any of the other races. Say what you wanted to about inferior Human technology, there was no better floors in this part of space.

Ben Zayne might not have liked it, but he was going to pay heed to the warning of that technician. Even if the man was a cheeky b-ard that he had a right mind of reprimanding for speaking without permission. Everywhere he looked, the floor reminded him of a large chessboard and he did not intend on falling through and breaking his leg or doing worse damage.

He didn't know how long he moved through "Down Below". Could have been ten minutes. Could have been an hour. He hadn't brought a watch, deciding against carrying one today. Because technically it was his day off, even if he still wore his uniform. But this friend would not be kept waiting. It was never a good idea.

After what seemed like an enormous amount of time, he turned around a corner and with a start pulled up short. There stood a Vorlon, his environmental-suit a set of triangles before the falling robes that surrounded it. The suit was a swirling set of colors, blue, white and green. No color was predominate over the other.

"Ambassador Mor'losh," Ben Zayne inclined his head, "It has been a long time."

"What is long to the mouse is nothing to the swaying tree," the Vorlon replied in a deep voice that sounded like the rumbling of old Earth automobiles. That was why Ben Zayne assumed that Mor'losh was a male, because of his deep voice. But what the Vorlon meant, he had no real idea.

"You called me to meet you," Ben Zayne said, "Although I am surprised you would want to meet here. Why not somewhere more open?"

"Some matters are best left where eyes and ears cannot overhear," the Vorlon replied.

As Vorlon answers went, that was a pretty straight forward answer. Ben Zayne nodded, and the Vorlon turned and headed off, gliding away. Some people claimed that Vorlons walked. But Ben Zayne didn't believe so. They were far too graceful to be walking. They walked for a few minutes in silence. Waiting was futile, Ben Zayne knew, because a Vorlon usually didn't act unless acted upon.

He opened his mouth to speak but the Vorlon interrupted him surprisingly. "The wise wait for the wind before setting sail. The time for standing still has passed."

"What do you mean?" he pressed, "What is happening?"

"The Shadows are here," the Vorlon said and Ben Zayne halted in mid-step. Ben Zayne knew all about the Shadows and their desire for chaos. He realized they were a threat. And threats needed destroyed.

"Then the rumors are true that Sheridan found them?" he asked, moving forward, "What do they want here?"

"What do _you_ want here?" Mor'losh asked.

Ben Zayne rolled his eyes. He wasn't sure he would ever completely be comfortable with the Vorlons propensity for vague answers and deflection. He once again wondered if the true power of Vorlons was simply confusion the enemy with their cryptic wisdom and counter-responses.

"What do you plan to do against them?" he asked.

"We need a weapon," Mor'losh answered, gliding around a crate piled high with building material. "One that is not expected."

"So a secret weapon then?" Ben Zayne asked. He liked the sound of that. Mor'losh turned to him and his eye-stalk zoomed in an almost human frown.

"No," Mor'losh replied, "Unexpected."

Ben Zayne close his eyes and rubbed them. He wasn't going to argue with Mor'losh. It wasn't going to do any good.

"What is this weapon going to be?" he asked.

"Unexpected."

Frustration well up in Ben Zayne. D-n Vorlons. Always making it difficult.

"What can I do for you then?" he asked.

"Open your mind," Mor'losh said and Ben Zayne frowned as suddenly the stalk opened wide and a beam of white light stabbed through his eyes and held him in place.

The light throbbed several times, Ben Zayne unable to move. He felt his understanding broadening, even though he felt pain surging through his every atom. He felt as if he was on fire, his blood boiling inside of him. There was nothing but understanding and pain.

With a shuddered gasp, the pain stopped and he collapsed to the ground, his eyes squeezed shut. His body trembled from the ordeal, but the pain was already vanishing. As if it were snow retreating from before the sun.

"We are now one, weapon," he said, his voice intermingled with the voice of Mor'losh who now resided inside of him. "We are unexpected."

Raising his head, he opened his eyes, and they glowed white.

"Can you really expect me to believe that you are responsible for the Vorlons taking over Ben Zayne?" Gideon asked, thrusting his staff to point at Ben Zayne, who was now struggling to stand. "They made him a weapon, unwilling though he was. They gave him no choice."

"But they only took him over because I had met with the Shadows," argued Sheridan, sitting on the crate with the building materials that the Vorlon and Ben Zayne had passed. "It was a direct response to what I did."

"Had it not been you," Gideon remarked, "It would have been someone else that brought them here. Unhappy chance brought you to that impasse. Only arrogance claims that we are the center of the universe and we are destined to be the creator or destroyer of worlds. We can make choice to make either of those happen, but chance is the greatest and purist definer of events and actions. Not us."

Sheridan looked down at the ground. The more he was with Gideon, the more he began to think that the shadow of acceptance to the truth was creeping around. But he was not yet ready to give up on his self-loathing. There was too much that was left to justify the guilt he felt.


	4. What We Enslave

**Chapter 4: What We Enslave**

Tick.

Lorien stood over the fallen form of John Sheridan. He hummed to himself, staring down at the body with intense interest. Sheridan had finally accepted the inevitability of his demise and now he could breathe what little life still remained and begin his life cycle again on the dying embers. He searched the ancient lore locked away in his millennia old brain, looking for the correct term and phrase that would allow him to revive the fallen champion.

Tock.

The child that he had carried was thrown across the ground, it's still form too broken to be fixed, even by the magics that were the Ancients. The fragile form of a child was not yet ready to receive the gift of life he desired to give. Any interference on his part would only result in detriment to the natural development of the child.

Tick.

Settling upon a certain phrase, he slowly bent his knees so he could kneel next to Sheridan's body. He grimaced slightly as his eons old bones and joints refused to give way as they once had. But he did not fret away his time with wishing for health or time that could not be. No, that was one of the many gifts of the Younger Races. The ability to wish for things to be different in the face of impossibility.

Tock.

He slowly reached his hand out, and placed it about a foot over Sheridan's sternum. That was the nexus of Human life. He began to mutter the words that were taught to the First Ones near the dawn of time for this galaxy. It was not difficult for him to say the words without an audience. The Shadows hadn't exactly been eager as of late to visit him, so he had taken to speaking with himself. Insanity some people might consider it. But the greatest wisdom lay in speaking ideas aloud so you can hear the words.

Tick.

He was so focused on his dealings with the fallen body he barely noticed the frozen touch as an icy chill began to fill the room. Nor did he notice the foul stench of death rising in great volumes. His attentions were focused solely on the task at hand and all things were secondary to this utmost task. Sheridan was a nexus that all things rode upon.

Tock.

The embers of Sheridan's life were staring like an automobiles engines firing up. Lorien wasn't sure how much he liked comparing the body though to something with no soul. The real truth was all being had two parts. The mortal coil of flesh, blood and bone. And the soul which was spirit and energy. Those two created the true destiny and potential of beings great and small. Was there a Supreme Being in the universe? The First Ones had decided that if there was such a being, he would reveal him or herself when they chose to and until that time there was no need to speculate.

Tick.

He felt something strong grab him, dark forces suddenly muttering as they began to take hold of him. Lorien cursed aloud as he struggled to free himself, but as soon as one dark tendon was snapped three more grabbed hold. Dark words were muttered of a language he had heard once upon a time, one he dreaded to see loose upon this galaxy, which was his domain.

Tock.

With a bone jarring crash he was thrown against the wall and he watched as darkness surged forward and hover over Sheridan. Then they slammed downwards onto the body, which jolted from the impact. Sheridan's back arched as his body was invaded by foreign agents and the body began to tremble. Lorien tried to say something, some words that could halt this terrible deed. But his mouth was wrapped shut by the forces.

Tick.

The body fell back to the floor as the invasion of darkness ended. Around his body began to materialize armor, etched with foul symbols. A glittering sword was produce near his still hand. Darkness shimmered around him, but the Vorlon Kosh was still there in the body and it was also subdued, but the color of its essence was pushed forth as well, creating a cloud that was both dark and light at the same time.

Tock.

Slowly the body sat up, it's eyelids closed. It sat there for a second, just sitting. Then it's head raised until it was facing Lorien. Slowly its arms moved in all the ways it could, slowly reaching up as high as it could go and as far back as it could be brought. Then it began to wiggle the fingers and toes, curling them then uncurling each finger one by one. It's head rolled around, back and forth it rolled. It's jaw moved back and forth, the mouth opening and closing. It's legs began to move, bending and slowly it stood up, pushing off from the ground.

Tick.

It walked slowly around, as if trying to test out the limits and abilities of the new body. It twisted it's torso around as far as it could to the right and then the left. The mouth opened and utter words no living being except Lorien could understand, approving the body that it was in. It then returned its face to Lorien and opened its eyes at long last. Reds and orange light filled the eyes of what had once been John J. Sheridan.

Tock.


	5. Let Us Sleep the Long Sleep

**Chapter 5: Let Us Sleep the Long Sleep**

The last scene that Sheridan had been exposed to left no doubt in his mind anymore. He was not responsible for his actions when he was taken over by the Gods of Death. For so long he had trusted the old adage of leadership that the person on top was responsible. But if he could not even control his own actions, then what crime did he truly commit?

"The answer is none," he said aloud.

They had returned to the Central Park of New York, at least the one from his memories. He didn't really stand there. But Galen rather preferred this place to all the others stored in Sheridan's rather sad memory. The bench he sat on was creaky, but it really didn't matter.

"To what question is the answer none?" Galen asked, standing at the edge of a duck pond. For some reason though, the ducks were a lot bigger in Sheridan's memories than in real life.

"There is no crime I committed," Sheridan said with conviction, "I was possessed by darkness. The darkness used me as a vessel for its dirty work. I cannot be held responsible for its crimes."

Galen looked back at Sheridan, and his dark and dirty clothes were replaced by a pinstripe suit. Galen thought Sheridan looked much better in that clothing than all the other outfits the man had seen fit to call clothes, no matter how ugly they truly were.

"You have any idea how much time has passed since your death?" Galen asked him.

Sheridan shrugged. He had no idea, for death really was a timeless bubble.

"One hundred and seventy years," Galen informed him, "They see you not as a hero, John. History records you a greater criminal then Hitler, Napoleon or Genghis Khan. You alliance with the Shadows, your war against Clark and your tyrannical rule overshadow all that any other true criminal was. What say you to that?"

"The only thing I care about it Delenn," Sheridan informed him. "And I blew that chance with her."

Galen gave a small smirk. "And quiet spectacularly if I may say so," Galen said.

Sheridan stood and turned away from him, walking to the edge of the grass and looking towards the skyscrape of New York City. Galen watched him, feeling the changes wrought in the man. Gone was the mountains of guilt. Now stood Sheridan who once was. A man who understood the price of crimes and understood his own role. Someone who had found peace.

"Who are you?" Galen asked him.

"I am not who I once was," Sheridan answered.

"What do you want?" Galen asked him, walking towards him.

"I want no power or fame," Sheridan shook his head, "Only the chance to make up for the personal injuries I caused."

"And whom do you serve and whom do you trust?"

Sheridan stared at the sky, thinking of all the things he had seen and done. All the people he had interacted with. Lyta Alexander Byron Allen, the red-head telepath. The fiery Russian woman Susan Ivanova. Lorien, oldest and wisest. Michael Garibaldi, another fallen angel like himself. And then Delenn, sweetest and most formidable person he had ever met. The Chosen One of his dreams.

"Whom do you serve?" Galen repeated with greater emphasis, "And Whom do you trust?"

"The dead serve no one," Sheridan repeated, "And I trust the Chosen One."

Galen took the answers and mulled them over in his head. A man who was not what he once was. A man who wanted no power or fame only to rectify the wrong. A dead man who trusted a Chosen One.

"You are ready then," he said, "Turn and behold the path to your personal salvation."

Sheridan turned and looked to where Galen held up his finger and pointed and his heart did a double beat. Standing there was a woman robed in white, staring at him from the opposite side of the duck pond. The woman he had loved above all others, even when he was married to his first wife, Anna. The woman he had as a child seen in a dream, a strange girl with a crown of bone around her beautiful hair.

Slowly he walked forward, and she stood there, expectantly waiting him. Each step felt like he was walking through deep mud, pulling at his feet, slowing him down. Yet with each footstep there was more strength and he was beginning to run, trying to catch the vision of perfection before she could disappear. He was soon standing above her, and suddenly he found himself unable to speak.

He opened his mouth and closed it several times, and found himself unable to say anything. Tears began to well in his eyes and began to course down his cheeks, streaking down into his beard where they wet them in his sorrow.

"Delenn…" he began, but she held up a delicate finger and placed it on his lips.

"I have missed you, my Chosen One," she said, and with that, they embraced and kissed each other.

Galen watched this reunion with a sad smile. He turned from the sight, having to return to the land of the living. True Technomages were never done in their work. There was another John J. Sheridan, another Delenn out there, in another world, living different lives. It was his responsibility to help them along, to find each other.

He walked down a path where another being was waiting. He took the guise of a fair human, flawless in appearance. Galen nodded to him.

"It is done," he said, "Shall we go?"

"Yes," said the other. They turned and walked away, leaving the realm of Sheridan's memories and entering a void of infinite colors and lights. They travelled together, their footsteps here echoing so much louder.

"Is it possible to save all the Sheridan's and Delenn's out there?" Galen asked him. "We have already saved the Hero that raised the Interstellar Alliance and his beloved. And now we just reunited the redeemed Great Scourge of the Third Age and his Chosen One. How many do you think we can save?"

"As many as possible," the other man said, rubbing his earlobe, "The universes deserve John Sheridan and Delenn of Mir. They are nexus anywhere they are and they can be a great force of good. Look at the universe we just left. No matter that Sheridan was a tyrant and a killer of millions. The empire he forged remains even after his death and flourishes and they speak with a reverence of him that few will ever achieve. We owe it to all universes their chances of the good and great Sheridan and Delenn."

"Sheridan will lead the people and Delenn will save them," Galen nodded, holding his staff loosely at his side. "So which one will we save next? One where Sheridan was the Minbari and Delenn was the human? Or one where they are really twins?"

"That is a secret that we shall enjoy discovering," the other said.

"I have always wondered," the Technomage said, "Why is it that in the universes you only speak cryptically and only choose to be that one race? There are many others."

"Ah!" the other man said, "A man who speaks cryptically men ponder their words trying to figure out the answer. As for the race, who doesn't respect Vorlons?"

Galen smiled and the two laughed at the joke. And with that little joke, Kosh and Galen ventured forward, ready to help save another universe by saving the most important people in it.


	6. Behind the Scenes

Behind the Scenes

Five years ago I first watched _Babylon 5_ in its entirety and fell in love with the story. During my third re-watch of the series, I began reading _A Dark, Distorter Mirror_ which is a wonderful five part series based on what would have happened if Earth had been destroyed by the Minbari. It set into motion a desire on my part to write my own alternative history series about _Babylon 5_ based as well upon a lost Earth-Minbari War. But unlike _A Dark, Distorted Mirror_ I went even further and asked, what would have happened of Dukhat had actually tried to reach out to the humans. How would it have transpired.

And thus began a nearly three year project. Three years and spanning nine books, it is the second largest Babylon 5 series, second only to ADDM, which clocks in at over a million words. _The Babylon 5 Alternative Universe_ is also one of the largest fanfics in history, period.

I cannot describe the feeling of accomplishment I feel right now as I write these words. When I first set off, I never imagined what twists and turns this series would take and I had absolutely no idea how exhausting this series would be. There was many times I sincerely gave up all hope that this series would ever see an end. As many will have noticed, entire months passed in this last book in which I simply did not post. Well, when you have written over 300,000 words as I have you get utterly tired.

But now that I have accomplished my goal of _finishing_ the series, I feel more confident now that I can finish the additional storylines and chapters that I want to do. More Human Remnant Civil War. More of the Hand and many more stories that we could see. And with them being singular chapters, I don't feel so daunted by the task of getting them finished, even if I am not going to be worrying too much about getting them cranked out in any timely fashion.

I wanted this series to end where it had begun, basically with two people that had once shared a dream coming back together one last time. Forgiveness not spoken but freely given. That is the best kind of forgiveness and the best kind of ending.

Now I explore other stories and finish other works but no longer will the great masterpiece of the B5AU hang over my head as an unfinishable task.

Farewell and see you all on the other side.


End file.
